For the last time...

I was at our family's fourth of July picnic.  My great uncle lingered about at the end.  I was very interested in this, because this is a family that is very practical and hard working.  I watched him walk towards his house a little bit and come back.  He seemed to want to say goodbye again.  I made an effort to talk to him again, very business like.  I'll never forget the picture in my head of him turning, waving and walking off with his baseball cap. 
It was the last time I ever saw him.  He died a few weeks later.
I think that at that very picnic, he knew.  I think we all, on some level knew.  Of course, we would never discuss that.  That is just not how things are done.  I just tried to be present to it.  I'm glad that I did, because I have no regrets.
Wouldn't it be wonderful if we lived every day this way?  How would it be if we all lingered about, trying to find a word or action?  This could be for the last time.
I've found that sense of finality a good bit lately.  It doesn't necessarily have to be someone dying.  It could be a simple as the last time we ride in this car, the last day of summer.  Sometimes, I try hard just to linger in the sweetness and uniqueness of a moment.  I don't want to take anything for granted.
A few years later, my great aunt spent an unexpected night at my house.  I loved fussing over her and fixing her breakfast.  I made this event as special as I could, loving and hanging on to one of my favorite people.  It became apparent that her health had declined greatly, and I spoke seriously with her daughter.  At the end it became very bittersweet as I made sure she knew how much I loved her.  I managed not to get too mushy.  I had same feeling I had when I watched my uncle walk away.  As Aunt Susie rolled off to her car, I knew it was the last time I would see her.  I held her in my heart and savored those moments, for last time. 

A narrative

I've spent a great deal of effort in this blog and in the past years of my life telling MY story.  It has become very important to me as I journey through this life.  Yet, sometimes I am reminded that there are other narratives involved in a story.  It is humbling to hear your child describe a particularly intense time of your life from her own perspective.  It brings gratitude in the form of a shared experience unique to everyone who was present.  I forgot how truly present children can be.
I've watched my children be told stories of my child hood.  It is offered in the the view of a singular perspective, not in a shared experience.  In other words, some people think that there is only one narrative.  I offer a concept that shows there are diverse narratives in shared experiences.
I think that this is, by far, one of the greatest divisions among people.  We have parents, leaders and people in authority who offer only their story.  I have grown tired of this.  I'm tired of sitting in a pew, meeting or class room with only a one way conversation.
I think that I am truly blessed to have found elders in my life who have listen deeply to me.  They have offered me that opportunity to be heard in a way that helps me hear myself.  I have been seeking Spiritual Direction from the moment I read about it in a book 8 years ago.  Although, I realize that a midwife had already guided me onto this path.
I think that the true gift of discovering your own unique narrative in life is to be able to listen to other people.  I will probably never tire of telling my own story.  I just hope that I can honor those who share this Journey with me and listen to them.

Young mother

Here I am with the 103rd Archbishop of Canterbury (and an unnamed child who had him wrapped around her finger).  I heard he was coming to the Cathedral, so I decided to go.  I'm not sure why I had so much stress today getting ready.  I'm always concerned I will sit in the wrong place or have some old lady cluck at me for not wearing panty hose.  The old lady who sat next to me was actually quite charming and welcoming.  I told her that I lived out in the country and I came to the Cathedral whenever I needed some high church.  She responded with "Episcopalians put on a parade like nobody else!"

Lord Carey gave quite a nice sermon, using humor.  He talked about a Cathedral being a place for seekers to come to.  It was quite affirming in my desire to show up there every once in awhile.  He was also able to speak about the Anglican Church in a very global nature.  It was very interesting to hear this perspective.  As I waited in line to shake his hand after the service, I joked with a retired Priest:  "Am I supposed to curtsy?  I don't know how.  I've never met a Lord before."

Well, he shook my hand and asked my first name.  I was at the end of a very long line and he was still very much engaged with people, standing in 90+ degree sunlight.  What he said to me has had me stymied.  I guess this is why I am writing about this here.  He said "You're one of the young mothers."  I laughed and said, "No, I'm an old mother."  I'm 41 years old and it is hard to think of myself as a young mother.  Plus, I did not have a single child with me.  Why would he refer to me this way?

I'm in an interesting place in my life.  Being a mother is, by far, the most difficult and important job I have ever had.  In many ways, it became how I identify myself to everybody.  I still seem to struggle with this role of mother.  Is this who I am, or all I am?  I've decided I am so much more than just one thing.  Yet, is there a better way of distinguishing myself?  I guess it is still place in the back of my mind that our culture diminishes women.  More importantly, I've watched too many people try to diminish my worth because I am busy raising my children.  I wish I didn't have to fight back about being diminshed.  I wish that I could recieve a decleration from the Archbishop with pride and excitment.  Yes!  I am a young mother.